


strike me down (then make me feel alive)

by tal_5



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Eventual Romance, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Prinxiety - Freeform, Promise, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Roommates, Swearing, background logicality maybe, but it's consensual, doesn't take too long lmao, just fluff my dudes, oh my god they were roommates, tell me if I've forgotten any triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 06:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tal_5/pseuds/tal_5
Summary: A very short story about four friends having a drink, and about Roman thinking a lot about stuff.Mostly about his roommate, Virgil.___One minute, Roman had been sitting on his couch handing his best friend, Logan, a drink, and the next minute he’s lying on the floor beside his roommate, tracing the swift curve of his nose with his index finger and giggling when he goes cross-eyed trying to follow it. It’s cute. He’s cute. Virgil is, irrefutably, very cute.





	strike me down (then make me feel alive)

One minute, Roman had been sitting on his couch handing his best friend, Logan, a drink, and the next minute he’s lying on the floor beside his roommate, tracing the swift curve of his nose with his index finger and giggling when he goes cross-eyed trying to follow it. It’s cute. He’s cute. Virgil is, irrefutably, _very_cute. But not even liquid courage can steal those private words from his mind. (Or, his heart, if he’s feeling especially cheesy.)

From somewhere to his left, Logan, his best friend of twenty years, sings a low tune; the ‘Rainforest Rap’. Something they’d constantly harmonise just to piss Virgil (and anyone else in the general vicinity other than Patton) off. But right now, with a mellow song playing in the background (not Logan) and a warm static tingling his skin, Roman watches Virgil snort and roll his eyes at the familiar melody. And, god, Roman loves him like this.

He loves him all the time, really, but seeing him so relaxed and loose just sends electric down Roman’s spine. Not the kind of energy that shocks him, but the kind that has his body humming in delightful elation.

Each vertebrae, one down to thirty-three, tingles and vibrates with brilliant sparks of energy. Lightning would be more accurate. Not just because of the obvious constant shots of electric that replicate the movement of a lightning strike, but because this feeling is dangerous. In a way.

Virgil Butler, his lovely and yet, unbelievably infuriating roommate. And quite possibly the love of his life. But he’s drunk, his brain isn’t working properly.

The lightning that strikes twice. More than twice, actually. Every day, anytime Virgil crosses his mind, he’s struck again. But whenever that happens, he’s all-too-happy to rant and loudly convey his worries to his best friend, who, despite being a wonderful best friend, has threatened on multiple occasions to sledgehammer him to sleep if he continues to complain._ ‘Just talk to him.’_

Because it’s that easy, apparently.

Then, there’s a slender thumb brushing over his forehead, attempting to flatten out one of his rare worry lines. Virgil frowns, though his eyes are still alight with glee. “You good? I lost you for a second there.”

Roman, still attempting to tuck away his feelings, plasters on as genuine of a smile as he can. “You,” he taps his roommate’s pale nose softly, his heart jumping at the adorable scrunching of it soon after, “worry too much.”

“I know,” mumbles Virgil, eyes cast sideways at the brown carpet. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s sweet that you care so much.”

Snapping upwards, that cold blue gaze locks on his own, cooling the heated brown of his eyes in an instant. So abrupt and unexpected that Roman forgets to breathe for a moment. Virgil seems to notice this, and he smiles, partially mischievous, partially fond. “I do. Care, I mean.”

Warmth creeps over his skin like a second layer, like a fire that doesn’t burn, and a smile involuntarily pulls at his lips. His eyes lower, desperate not to show just how deliriously happy is because he _cares_. This shouldn’t be a surprise, and really, it’s not, but Virgil Butler doesn’t say things like that without a reason. He’s never been good with words, he claims.

But he doesn’t need to be good with words. The already-made coffee, tea, or dinner when he gets home from work; his lovely smile, in any form; the random texts at every hour of things that remind Virgil of him; movie marathons and book recommendations; everything he does to remind Roman that, yes, he _does_ in fact know of his loud roommate’s existence and is actually quite happy about it, strikes Roman again and again. Filling him with so much electricity, so much warmth, that he forgets the rain pelting the pavement around him.

Loving Virgil has made him humble. Humbler than he was, anyway.

Having the pleasure of simply knowing such a beautiful person, never mind getting to love them, is something he’s learned to never take for granted. And although his head sometimes forgets, his heart never can.

Calloused fingers stroke along his jawline, smoothing memories of strummed melodies behind closed bedroom doors into his sweet honey skin, and he doesn’t even have the strength to reach up and take that pale hand in his own. He just wants to feel his fingers caress his cheek, dip into the dimple emphasising the joy in his expression, and then land at the soft point of his chin. His lungs tremble as he breathes, reminding him that, although he’s almost never been so comfortable around someone before, his body immediately recognises him both as a threat and as a target for affection. Though, ‘target’ makes it sound much more aggressive than it is.

He wants to speak. But what can he say that won’t ruin this? Ruin whatever drunken affectionate position they’ve gotten themselves into? Because he doesn’t want to move; he doesn’t want this to stop. And it kind of looks like Virgil is preparing to say something too, but he falters and deflates before he manages to. So, will he be the one to break this special kind of quiet? The quiet that isn’t really quiet, with voices chattering and instruments playing, but making the kind of noise that falls apart when you look at that one person. That one person that keeps your world turning.

Should he tell him? Maybe it’s the alcohol, but this seems like a situation ‘friends’ wouldn’t find themselves in. Would that be too intimate for such a public area? ‘Public’ being a strong term for four friends drinking together. 

There’s so much he could say. So much he kind of wants to say. But, instead, his intoxicated brain grants him _this_ gem: “You’re really pretty.”

Virgil, clearly surprised by the sudden compliment, jolts back a millimetre before snickering and shuffling closer. “Yeah?” His tone is playful, but the flushed grin on his face is sincere, and the hand resting against the side of his neck presses firmer, as if assuring Roman that it’s still there. “You’re pretty too. Way prettier than me.”

“Not possible.”

“Sure,” he mutters, the smile on his face widening.

Roman’s arms finally regain some strength, so he can lift his hand to cover Virgil’s, lacing their fingers together. The movement is slow, cautious, but Virgil happily reciprocates, squeezing his hand afterwards. “I mean it. You’re lovely.”

A sound, something halfway between a laugh and a deep exhale, slips through Virgil’s lips and allows Roman to catch the scent of cider and cinnamon. His eyes flutter slightly, perhaps unintentionally, as he gazes up through his thick lashes into a dark wood of burnt umber trees, his smile now bashful as it curls smaller, yet more genuine. “You’re drunk.”

“And? Doesn’t change how lovely you are.”

Virgil snorts. “I mean, you wouldn’t say it were you sober.”

Roman’s brain sends out a red alert, warning him of the possible repercussions of saying exactly what he wants to say. The heartbreak. The rejection. The resentment. Virgil leaving. Regretting his first _real_ love. But every other inch of his body is itching, clawing even, at him to just say it. _‘Please, god, just say it. We can’t take the loneliness anymore.’_

And so, he says, “I think it every day. I just don’t say it because I’m scared.”

Visibly, Virgil swallows, his pupils dilating and pulsing to the beat of his heartbeat. Or maybe that’s Roman’s heartbeat. Probably.

“I know we’re drunk right now, but we can talk about this tomorrow too, so, like…” he pauses, thumb brushing over a freckle on his left cheek, “I really like you. And you’ve been sending signals? _Maybe_. If not, then that’s cool. But I still think it’s better to just tell you that I… yeah. Like you. A lot.”

Roman doesn’t know how to reply to that. To everything he’s wanted to hear for the longest time, he has no smooth or quick-witted response, only dumb silence. But he’s always been better at showing affection, anyway.

He leans forward, pressing the softest of kisses to Virgil’s lips before pulling away. Though, he doesn’t get far, as the hand on the side of his neck slides to the back and tugs him forward, sending one last lightning strike down his spine before the storm clears, and the sun arrives to warm and relax him again.

Sunny opportunities lie ahead of him and his beautiful storm. And he plans on taking advantage of every single one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I first posted this on my tumblr, which you can find in my bio. thanks for reading!!


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